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whose bucket is this.

here. we can go once. many evenings they are full. other mornings they are empty. it is merely a matter of selection and deselection. not so many that interpretation is corrupt. tho enough to embody emptiness.

Mary even told fortunes of the Spiritualist intrigue. Seven texts reduced to seven texts become 11 words, randomly ordered. Served capriciously, all from a bucket.

funnel the words in. tip the words out. irrigate the screen with every dense mesh that you found down the well. keep them close in a skin with a handle or drench yourself utter.